In the debut of her column series, Michelle Provencher explains why she’d rather stay single and mingle.
Hi. My name is Michelle, and I’m a commitaholic.
Now you all say in unison, “Hi, Michelle.”
And so begins my group therapy-esque column. Although, I should tell you now: It’s going to be rather one-sided.
Since 10th grade, I have hopped from steady relationship to steadier relationship, without ever really spending too much time without a boyfriend at my beck and call.
After my last relationship bit the dust, I spent the obligatory grace period licking my wounds and then started swimming in the dating pool again – the chlorinated, pee-filled public dating pool. Yet, I’m less eager to settle down with a single guy as I have been. I’ve been going on date after date, and surprisingly, I’m having fun.
I used to dread awkward introductions and lengthy lulls in dinner conversations and was preoccupied with thoughts of how to eat my entrée and still look sexy. Worry, I do no longer. My apathy toward building a new relationship has led to some of the best dates ever because I couldn’t care less about how I look or what I say.
Don’t get me wrong. I still put on mascara before I leave the apartment, but I’m not stepping on eggshells around the “hims.” Thus, my newfound confidence has been gaining me more gentleman callers and stamping out my desire to continue on the flavorless path of serial dating.
Is it wrong I send a text to three of my romantic involvements and whichever one gets back to me first wins? Or that I’ve mentally assigned each his designated day for activities, and on Sundays I rest? Don’t you judge me, readers. I have precious time to make up for before I graduate and join the adult world, the world where I have to show a little more respect – and must graciously accept free drinks with more than a wink and a smile.
Until then, I plan on exploiting my charm for all it’s worth, which, as of now, is a bottle of wine, three courses and a stroll through the city.
Maybe it’s the angst-y feminist in me, but I feel no guilt about being a manizer. Why is Microsoft Word red-underlining “manizer” but not “womanizer?” Is the idea of manizing so far-fetched it’s not even recognized by Webster?
The only positive and promiscuous contemporary role model we ladies have is Carrie Bradshaw, and Big isn’t even that cute. He’s got a “four” face and “six” body, and that’s me being generous.
I’m not saying I’m promiscuous. I’m not sleeping with my dates. That wouldn’t be fun at all. Sex isn’t fun until the second or third time, the first is usually pretty standard, awkward even, if you didn’t have a couple cocktails, and I don’t intend on keeping these Mr. Distractions around that long (I’m a G, after all).
Do you remember, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, how Holly Golightly goes on dates and then locks them out of her apartment? I’m a lot like that, except I don’t smoke or have a cat. I’m a dog person. (I find them more loyal. Go figure.)
I must reiterate: I have been a one-man kind of woman as long as I can remember – or since I traded in my specs for contacts and a C-cup bra – so I’m new to the game. But I continue to surprise myself. When I get home from the bar, restaurant or event, I pat myself on the back for another job-well-done on the field. I’ve become an expert at being aloof, gauging text response time and appropriately peppering conversation with coy giggles.
Am I degrading men to pass the time until commencement May 13? Quite possibly. So let’s grow together – I’ll share my dating exploits, and we’ll both learn from them. Just don’t hate me when I excuse myself from my date to use the restroom but really am giving the cute guy at the bar my phone number. And please forgive me for seeing a movie with a different man than I went to dinner with an hour prior. A girl’s got to have some productive occupations; we can’t all knit.
Michelle Provencher can be reached at email@example.com.